One Good Turn
by Meiran Chang
Summary: Done for the Seven Heavenly Virtues challenge on SiB@LJ. My virtue: Charity. Goldanna's POV on the man who would be King, and the boy who would be her brother. Complete.


_**One Good Turn **_

I'm angry for weeks after he stops by. Six feet or more of armor that gleams in the sunlight from the windows, beautifully worked and embellished with pauldrons as high as his head. With the proceeds from the chestplate alone, I could buy Fern all the clothes she's ever wanted, give Jonathas an entire library to sit and scribble in, hells, I could buy whole gardens for my little Camilla, and gardeners to teach her, too, with flowers blooming all year round. Add in the gauntlets and the twins could tumble about in silks over fluffy Orlesian pillows playing with little dolls and tiny toy horses and all the things noble children have, anything they want.

On his back he bears a sword that costs more than I can hope to save in a bloody _year_, even if I have a good year, even if I work my hands raw. Even the _sheath_ I could do something with, move us out of this horrible hovel even, where the bar drunkards stagger too near our doorstep after dark and there's always broken glass nearby. That's all I can think when he comes in with his baby's face and man's voice and tells me, "I'm Alistair. I'm your brother," sounding so sodding thrilled about it, like a mabari pup with something new to piss on.

Oh, I kick him out of course, and the armored stiff by his side with a mage staff crammed onto her back. The babe Mother bore hasn't died? It's grown up, it's poised to take its birthright, it's here at my door, looking handsome and tall and healthy? _Wealthy? _And here is _poor_ Goldanna, in her patched dress with its ragged hem, standing before His Illustrious Spotlessness with her hair all bedraggled because I'm in the middle of _working_ here before I have to take the time out of my day to meet this eager whelp and do _what?_

I don't know what this Alistair wants, but with all that shiny pretty armor, I bet he can buy it.

A few hours later, after I've given him a tongue-lashing that leaves him visibly stunned, I break into sobs over Lady Alsneta's wash. The boy's visit only reminds me of Mother, and how it felt when she died at the hands of the king's bastard child and left me utterly alone in this world. I was a lanky knob-kneed twelve at the time, and not really pretty, not really good at anything, certainly not good at puckering up to kiss smooth and sweetly-scented noble ass – apparently a specialty of Mother's, and one she paid for, wasn't it? I was dismissed from service at Redcliffe Castle and told to make my way with a bit of coin and the Maker's blessing.

Coin was gone by the time I found my way to Denerim, and the Maker's blessing, well, I don't really know about that. I had Fern and Jonathas one after the other, before I was even old enough to serve as bar wench, and I'm not sure whose child Camilla is. I couldn't save any money, because anything I got, I used right away, for the babies' clothes or food or comfort. I refused to go to the Chantry.

Eventually I became a washerwoman, because I'm no deft hand at sewing. And one of the fellows who came by regularly with a nobleman's wash, he was an elf, name of Rael, with a sweet shy smile and jewel-blue eyes. He gave good tips and he was always polite, and he never minded when Fern or Jonathas would come streaking by half-naked and tripping over themselves, and he never made no faces over the baby crying, and even when I was rude or tired he was patient. One thing led to another, except Rael didn't leave me over it, and he did what he could, especially once our twins came. But hell, I thought I had it hard, the elves haven't got not _nothing_, and that leaves me in the same place as before, doesn't it?

Pretty deep thoughts to have over Lady Alsneta's wash. Poor Fern, patting away at my back before she plunges her little hands into the water to help me out. Rael should be by tomorrow with the wash again, and I know he'll help.

All these kids to raise and feed, and if I could pay their way with love alone, that'd be one thing; but you can't do that, it's not possible. So I work my hands raw every single day, and try not to bleed onto the noble folks' good clothes. The twins, Brise and Fortin, they're the most beautiful babies you ever saw, and their daddy loves them to pieces, and I do too. But Brise is sickly and Fortin needs attention, and Fern is always pining for pretty things, and Jonathas is always sneaking off to the Chantry where one of the sisters is teaching him how to read, and Camilla's half-wild with all the time she spends in muddy patches trying to make weeds grow.

Maker bless them, they are the reason I do anything I do at all. And if this Alistair with all his proud swagger knew anything at all about me aside from his claim to my blood, he wouldn't have shown up empty-handed, with little more than a sheepish smile and old news.

xOxOx

When the darkspawn come to Denerim, my family and I have already left. I wasn't risking my babies, not for all the world. I hear stories of a Landsmeet divided against itself, of the warrior-mage by the bastard prince's side who defeats the Hero of the River Dane in single combat, Queen Anora dethroned, and long live the new King – Alistair Theirin, the Golden King's son.

Once Denerim is restored, I bring my family back and go looking for Rael. I learn from the next elf to come by with Lord Ianto's wash that he died in the Alienage during the battle, trying to defend himself with an illegal dagger – my Rael, less of a fighter than I am! I cry until I can scarcely squeeze out another tear for the goodness and decency the world has lost with him.

The warrior-mage Warden dies fighting the Archdemon, and so much for that. I don't expect to hear from Ye Royal Highness ever again, considering the gobsmacked look on his face when I tossed him and the Warden out, and I don't regret my decision in the slightest.

At least, I tell myself that, over and over, stern as I can.

If he'd wanted to be a part of my family, he had to earn that right; he wasn't nothing but a rich stranger to me, and if he wasn't going to work to become anything more, if he just wanted a family handed over to him on a plate, then that was on him. And too bad for him, I think once my grieving passes, because I have a beautiful family and I'm proud of them.

King Alistair... Uncle Alistair. My half-brother, Alistair, the King.

A summons comes from the Palace one evening, calling me away from my work, which I don't thank him for. I'm brought before the King wearing my best, which isn't much; my hands are red and rough, clenching the threadbare folds of my gown. I remember how tenderly Rael would hold my hands, as though they were the hands of a fine lady, dainty and soft. King Alistair – he stands before me in fine breeches and doublet with gilt thread, and I stare at him, surrounded by beautiful things in an out-of-the-way chamber.

"Now that the Blight is over," he says softly, "I've had a lot of time to think about things. I appreciate very much that you came."

"Nothing to appreciate. Can hardly tell the King's messenger to piss off, can I?" I cross my arms. "So what is it you want, Ser King?"

He winces. "Please don't," he mutters. "Just Alistair."

"All right, _brother_." I can see him flinch at that. "What is it? I need to get back to my children. I've _work_ to be doing." Part of me is cold with fear, me mouthing off to the bloody King like this, but the other part, the stronger part, wants to know why he's asked me back. Wants to hear him say it.

"I thought," he says quietly, "that if you wanted, I could offer you a position here in the Palace. You could bring your children. I would see that they're cared for – you're all my blood, and I wanted to..."

"Understand this, King," I interrupt. My eyes are burning. "You are _my_ blood. I'm no relative to the Golden King, but I do remember Mama. She was a proud woman, a hard worker." He listens as though he's holding his breath. "Like _me_. What _position_ is this?"

"Whatever position you want," he says, spreading his hands. "I didn't want to presume by choosing for you, I mean, I scarcely... I hardly know you, there's not been a chance. I meant to come back—"

"But you didn't," I point out.

"I had to deal with the Blight first. _Everything_ had to wait, Goldanna."

My nostrils flare as I breathe in, but I can't really disagree. "One of your boots would have kept my children fed for months," I mutter.

"And you would have accepted that?" he says sharply. My head rises at his tone. "Had I pulled off my _boot_ – which I took off a darkspawn in a pool of its own blood, by the way, so I wouldn't have handed it to _any_ untainted person – you would have just taken it without another comment?"

My arms tighten across my torso defensively. "The children have to eat and so do I." My voice comes out with less conviction than I'd wish.

He sighs like his kingly head hurts. Must be the weight of the royal tiara. "You needn't accept, but I beg that you do. The Battle of Denerim..." He hesitates, sorrow darkening his hazel eyes. "It made things harder for everyone. I can't imagine that you and the children have it easy. So few do."

I wonder who he lost in that battle, because you don't get that strained, pinched look of pain, that ugly grief that screws up your face and makes your teeth clench and your brows wobble, without losing someone. Maybe that warrior-mage was the one he lost, I think in a sudden flash of clarity; I couldn't see her face beneath the helm she wore, but maybe she had eyes that made him want to melt or hands that touched him like he was the most precious thing she'd ever known.

I feel for him. It's out of nowhere, a blast of empathy like a burst of sunshine.

"And I would like to meet my nieces and nephews," he adds, smiling a little wryly. "I don't know when I'll have children of my own." _If_, his lonely eyes are saying, the smile barely touching them, _if_. "I would like to be a part of your family, and for you to be a part of mine. Please permit me to do what I can for you."

"I'll help with the washing, then." I look at his fine royal undress boots. "And I'll bring the children."

When I glance up, there is a look of great relief on his face, and I want to tell the boy to get a hold of his expression, since I'm sure a King's enemies could very easily use such open features against him. But he's not really a boy anymore – no boy passes through that grief without becoming a man – and he's not asked my advice on the matter. "Three girls and two boys," I say instead. "Fern, Brise, and Camilla, and Jonathas and Fortin. You'll like them. Everyone does."

"Thank you," he says softly.

For a moment I don't quite know how to respond – but he's trying, this newly-made man, this brand-new King, the last thing Mother ever gave this world. And if he keeps trying... I'll have a brother. And he'll have a sister.

"You're welcome," I say, inclining my head.


End file.
